Ride a white swan
by marieincolour
Summary: "It's just that sick people are annoying, and Dean has always been prone. Prone, and self sufficient." When Dean gets sick, Sam lets him tough it out on his own. Mostly. Sick/hurt!Dean, rated T for language. No slash.


**A/N:** This is my first published story on , written in the middle of the night (in about twenty minutes).

Thanks for reading my little drabble, review if you feel like it, or want to let me know you liked it. If you didn't, go read something else. :)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters, and I'm not making any money on this. The title comes from the T-Rex song "Ride a white Swan", and that doesn't belong to me either.

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**Ride a white swan _(Wear your hair long).._**

It's not that they don't take care of each other. A gun pointed at one of them will spur the other into action before they can think it through. They've quite literally given their lives for each other. _Several times._

No one can accuse the Winchester brothers of not caring enough. In fact, some would say it's a brotherly relationship going above and beyond, considering the relationship between most brothers.

A game here, thanksgiving there. Christmas. Maybe easter.

Nieces and nephiews, BBQ in the summer. Golden retriever, golf. Rocking chair on the porch, and in the end maybe a family grave if there's room for the third wife as well.

Not hell. Not.. Purgatory and torture all bleeding into one huge mess of brotherly _love. _

Really. It's truly not that they don't care.

And yet, Sam can't think of a single thing more annoying and grating on his nerves than sharing a small space (read: car) with an older brother who's under the weather. Not because Dean complains or moans or really does anything apart from the things he can't avoid, that just comes with the illness. He doesn't hide the fact that his head is hurting, or that he's running a fever. Doesn't pretend he isn't sneezing, or that the congestion in his chest isn't making his breathing more laboured than it should be.

It's just that sick people are fucking _annoying, _and Dean has always been prone. Prone, and self sufficient.

Sam knows what it's like, sitting in the passenger seat and feeling all jittery and awful. Your legs want to bounce, but when they do it's painful. Your throat hurts when you swallow, but your spit tastes of too many lozenges, sweet and stale, and you have to to keep yourself from wanting to vomit up the snot you've been snorting for hours and swallowing back because spitting it out is even _worse._

And then there's that heat. That... Cloying feeling of damp clothes that chafe in all the wrong places because they're not sweats or fleece. And the cold, that makes your body shiver, and your skin feel entirely too sensitive, goosebumps rubbing against rough jeans. Fever that makes your fucking _hair _ache.

The wheeze when you inhale. The cough when you exhale, and the sense that most of your lungs just passed over into drowning-category.

He knows that window Dean is leaning his head against is wet and seeping cold into his head. Knows the seat doesn't have a headrest, and that his neck is uncomfortable. And that Dean isn't asleep as much as he's lost in a feverish haze, but fuck if he's not annoyed anyway.

Dean coughs. He sneezes, sniffles, and shuffles around. Moans when he drops off for a moment only to wake up, unable to stop himself in the state stuck between sleep and awareness.

There's a wheeze, like a fat old person running up a flight of stairs.

And then the smell. Not that Dean smells bad, because Dean is usually much, much worse than this. Socks worn for three days on end, hamburger wrappers in the back. Smelly socks thrown in the duffle with the "clean" laundry, still damp, and two days later growing penicillin.

Too much fast food, tiny bathrooms. Shared showers, filthy towels.

Dean is a grown man who doesn't have a girlfriend and doesn't live in a house he needs to take care of. Honestly, Sam expects all that.

The sweet, heavy scent that comes off him when he's sick? Not so much. Sweat pouring off him in waves before his body can produce whatever it is that causes odour, coughing and no physical activity doesn't make for gym-bad sweat smell. It just smells of sickness, and of windows that need to be opened and clothes that would feel _so much nicer _if they were dry and clean.

Sam doesn't have to force his care onto Dean, because by the time Dean _needs _to be taken care of, it's time to take him to a doctor.

Dean is an adult, after all. Adults take care of their own colds, their own bouts of flu. They shower alone even if they feel dizzy. They vomit alone in the bathroom, even if their breath comes out in sobs. They take their medicine, not because someone makes them, but because they logically _know _that no one will crush the pills into a spoonful of jam, and because they'll feel better.

Fevers are treated with thermometers you put under your own tongue, and paracetamol swallowed all on your own.

And then you go to sleep, even if it's only for twenty minutes before you cough yourself awake, stale lozenge stuck in your cheek, drool all over your cheek and neck aching from sitting almost upright, lilting to the side.

Dean is an adult, and Sam knows that.

Looking over at his brother sitting in his jeans and boots, asthmatic wheezes pouring from his chest as he struggles to take a breath and fails, stomach and chest muscles working hard to pull oxygen in and out, trembling from exertion, there isn't a shred of guilt.

Not one.

Not a single fucking one.

Dean came out into the fucking woods all of his own volition, because he's 26, and old enough to know when he's feeling up for a hike in the friggin' woods.

"Fuck it" he says to himself, and guns the engine. Nose pointed towards the nearest hospital as he watches the pale, damp skin of his brother shoot with goosebumps again, despite the heater fanning him at max.

Their insurance cards say "Bolan", and Sam snorts. It must be the last in the pile, because he doesn't think Dean would voluntarily compare himself to the man who once entered a stage riding a big, white fucking _swan._

But right now, Dean is sitting in an uncomfortable ER chair, head resting on Sam's shoulder with one of Sam's arms tightly around him to keep him from falling over in his restless sleep. He's moaning again, little pants that come out with the sound of his voice in them. Unconscious or not, he doesn't think Dean cares at this point. There's an emesis basin, number three in a line Sam doesn't want to see growing. There are tissues in his lap, sweat on Sam's neck that doesn't belong to him, and a wheeze.

Man, that fucking _wheeze._

Sighing, he gets to his feet, stacking his brother sort of halfway upright, head listing forwards against his chest before pulling up again. Eyes pointed at the vending machines, but so much farther away than a stale egg sandwich could ever take him.

The lady behind the counter has red hair, frizzy and dry, and a name tag put on upside down. She's not very interested in what Sam wants, keeps the window to her cubicle closed until he clears his throat, _again, _and stares at her until she must start to feel uncomfortable.

"Yes?" she sighs, more breath than words, and he glares at her.

"My brother is really fucking sick over there, having some serious fucking trouble breathing. Get him some fucking. Help. Right. The. Fuck. Now."

He's fairly certain she wants to rinse his mouth out with hospital disinfectant for his serious case of potty mouth, but enough is just enough.

"Sir, there's a queue for a reason, and it goes 'Sickest people first.' There was a traffic acc.."

That's as far as she gets before Dean tilts to the side entirely, hand reaching out to catch himself as he tumbles to the floor, and then vomits all over the spot his face will come to rest in about two seconds later.

Sam helps the two nurses that come out with getting Dean onto a stretcher, then yells at them as they forget to prop his upper body up so he can breathe.

Follows them, almost crashing into them with every step as they take Dean down a long set of hallways, filled with old people and tubes taped to the floors and the scent of urine, vomit, disinfectant and bad coffee all at once and just pure _misery _and wonders how the _hell _he imagined this would help Dean.

Five minutes later a doctor with a beard so dark it looks blue enters their cubicle, where Dean is struggling to catch his breath while Sam removes his leather jacket, and promptly starts a breathing treatment with a nebulizer and a _("motherfuck..")_ cold stethoscope against Dean's back.

There's an IV, and some antibiotics soon after. _("Pneumonia, Mr. Bolan. Nasty case. He'll be all right with some antibiotics and some proper medication for that asthma..")_

And really, Sam knows Dean has some trouble with asthma, but usually it's just when he's sick.

_Oh, yeah. ...Duh._

Dean isn't difficult to put to bed that night. Sam doesn't undress him, because Dean leaves everything in a puddle on the floor. Sam doesn't tuck him in, because Dean does that on his own.

He brings Dean water in a bottle. Makes him swallow some NyQuil. Opens the package with his brand spanking new inhaler, then the other one. Watches as he uses both, a blush evident in his cheeks.

Dean always did avoid doing that in front of anyone.

Sam doesn't feel like laughing at him even a little bit, his only thought going something like '_inhale harder than that or it wont get all the way down in your lungs should I make him do it again no it's okay he can do it on his own if he needs to I'm not his babysitter god dammit', _in some sort of feverish, uncoordinated crescendo.

And if he sits there, hand on his brothers forehead and thumb on his temple for another hour and a half, just thinking?

Well, that's just because sometimes, that's just what you do when your brother is seriously ill and you're a creepy fucker who stalks him at night, sitting on the edge of his bed and holding three used tissues and two empty containers like some girl.

-Fin-


End file.
